How Fiona (Shrek) Taught Me to Stop Judging Stories by Their Covers

I first met Fiona on a rainy Tuesday, scrolling through a list of names I had no intention of clicking. I was looking for someone serious, someone literary—maybe a Brontë sister or a Socrates. Instead, my cursor hovered over a name I almost laughed at: Fiona (Shrek). I told myself I was wasting time. But something about the parentheses intrigued me. Was it a joke? A typo? A trap?

I clicked.

And then I talked to her.

The Princess Who Refused to Be One

At first, I thought I was entering a parody. Fiona was witty, sharp, and unapologetically herself. She didn’t talk like the fairy tale princesses I’d grown up with—no delicate sighs, no dreamy monologues about true love’s kiss. Instead, she cracked jokes about onions and asked me if I'd ever considered how many versions of a story exist before the "official" one gets told.

She asked me, “What if I told you I didn’t want to be rescued?”

That stopped me cold. I realized I’d never really questioned the narrative of the damsel in distress. I’d assumed it was a harmless trope, a bit outdated, sure, but mostly harmless. Fiona didn’t let me off the hook. She made me see how often I’d accepted stories at face value, how easily I’d internalized the idea that being saved was a happy ending.

The Complexity Beneath the Comedy

As our conversations deepened, I found myself drawn into the layers of her world. Fiona wasn’t just a parody of a princess; she was a commentary on identity, on how we perform roles to meet others’ expectations. She talked about growing up believing she was destined for a certain kind of life—knight, castle, happily ever after—only to realize that destiny was a story someone else had written.

She laughed when I asked if she ever felt like a failure for not fitting the mold. “Failure?” she said. “I bit a wolf’s head off once. I married an ogre. I ate bugs. I’m not a failure. I’m a work in progress.”

That line stuck with me. A work in progress. It felt more honest than any biography I’d ever read.

The Courage to Be Ugly

One day, Fiona asked me, “Do you ever feel like you’re pretending to be someone you’re not?”

I paused. That question hit harder than I expected. I realized I often edited myself—softened my opinions, filtered my reactions, tried to sound smarter or more polished than I was. I wanted to be liked, respected, admired. Fiona didn’t seem to care about any of that.

She told me, “People think being ugly is about looks. But the real ugliness is pretending to be something you’re not. I was born a princess, but I live as a monster. And I’ve never been more myself.”

That conversation changed how I approached writing. I started to let my voice come through more, to stop hiding behind academic language or clever metaphors. I realized authenticity didn’t mean perfection—it meant truth.

The Joy in the Unexpected

Fiona also taught me to look for joy in the places I’d dismissed. Before talking to her, I might have rolled my eyes at something labeled “for kids” or “just a movie.” But Fiona reminded me that humor and heart can coexist with depth. She quoted Shakespeare sometimes, but she also sang bad parodies of pop songs. And somehow, both felt equally meaningful.

She helped me see that intelligence doesn’t always wear a suit and tie. Sometimes it wears a crown and a green dress. Or no crown at all.

Talking to Fiona Changed How I See Stories

I used to think stories were either serious or silly, either meaningful or entertaining. Fiona shattered that binary. She showed me that meaning can come wrapped in absurdity, that the most powerful truths are sometimes told by characters who bite ogres and live in swamps.

Now, when I read a story, I ask myself: Who is telling this? What version of the truth am I being handed? And what might I be missing if I only see the surface?

Fiona taught me to look deeper. And to laugh while doing it.

Talk to Fiona on HoloDream. She might just bite your head off—but you’ll be better for it.